


An Officer and a Demon

by TheVulgarBookworm



Category: The Patriot (2000)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Be ready for anything!, Biting, Blood and Violence, Choking, Colonel Tavington should be his own warning, Come Marking, Come Swallowing, Creampie, Dacryphilia, Doggy Style, Drunken sex, F/M, Face Slapping, Face-Fucking, Facials, Finger Sucking, First Time, Forced Masturbation, Gags, Horses, Humiliation, Leather, Light Bondage, Manipulation, Naked Female Clothed Male, Nicknames, Not as violent as you might expect, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Prostitution, Rope Bondage, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sadism, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Violence, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Verbal Humiliation, Whipping, gagging, just wait
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2020-01-11 02:07:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18420630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVulgarBookworm/pseuds/TheVulgarBookworm
Summary: Sent back to the fort from the party early after the destruction of their supply ship, Colonel Tavington stumbles upon something rather unexpected. His ego bruised, he claims what should rightfully be his.





	1. Claiming His Territory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheTVJunkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTVJunkie/gifts).



> Written for the TheTVJunkie, because some sadistic, sick, and twisted Colonel Tavington was requested! Hope he's sick and twisted enough for you, and if he isn't just wait. He'll get worse!!
> 
> Part two is going to look way different from part one. It's not written yet because I'm a super slow writer, but if this one turns your stomach, best to steer clear of the second part. Heed the tags people!!!!

Colonel William Tavington was, one might say, on edge. And after all, why wouldn't he be? Forced to suffer humiliation at every turn, constantly berated in front of his men by the esteemed General Cornwallis. The sidelong glances from his subordinates were impossible to miss, and much as he would like, knocking Cornwallis’ teeth down his throat was a fantasy that would never see the light of day.

It was only through his actions, his precaution, that their arms and munitions had not been destroyed. 

Was he thanked for that? 

Commended?

No. Quite the opposite.

He had found himself on the receiving end of a severe tongue lashing in front of no less than three of the general's staff, and he could do nothing but stand there and take it, his rage simmering beneath the surface.

It was not his fault that the ‘ghost’ still evaded capture, or that the blasted colonial militia refused to fight as men. Had he not warned them?

But it didn't matter to Cornwallis that he was doing everything he could. In the end it would always be his fault until the wretch was captured and hanged.

It was why he had found himself sent back to their makeshift fort while the party still carried on. Cornwallis couldn't admit to such a blow in front of all those people. There was no way the party would be cut short. 

Fireworks indeed.

And he had so been looking forward to spending the night beneath the skirts of a drunken party goer or two.

Now it was late morning, and Lord Cornwallis was still nowhere to be seen. If the same pattern held from previous such parties, he would probably still be having his ego stroked, among other things, and would not be expected back until evening. It gave him time to plan at least, and hopefully the general would be in a more forgiving mood, because the news was not in their favor.

Tavington was just exiting the stables when he caught a flash of movement from around the side of the commandeered house. He was instantly on alert, hand on his pistol, and when he rounded the side of the house, the sight which greeted him made his blood boil, half in rage and half in raging lust. Two of his subordinates, stupid beyond belief if they were doing this out in the open, were pawing at the prettiest, most fragile little thing he had seen in a good long while.

That infamous temper of his, so close to the surface, he swallowed down. The tightening in his gut, denied since his early exit from the party, he didn't bother to rein in, though he did keep his impassive mask in place. It wouldn’t do to startle the trio, and send the girl running before he even had a chance at her. He came upon them unhurriedly, and his men were completely oblivious. No wonder the bloody colonials remained free.

It was the woman who noticed his presence, squeaking in fear when she did so. She struggled in furious embarrassment, trying to free herself to no avail, and her companions stared at him in dumbfounded shock.

Tavington kept his voice light and curious, inviting the men to offer him the information he sought. “Serjeant. Corporal. What do we have here?”

“Just a whore, Sir,” the serjeant grinned. 

Tavington could smell the alcohol on the man's breath even from where he stood. He didn't miss the young woman's look of distaste as he looked her over. Evidently she hadn't been one for long. The news only piqued his interest.

“I take it she just stumbled through the front gate then?”

“No,” the serjeant continued, missing the pointed looks his companion shot his way. The corporal was clearly the more intelligent of the two, and the more sober. “We brought her back from town, Sir.”

His hand tightened behind his back as he fought down his anger, the leather of his glove creaking audibly. 

“Just now?” he asked, voice brittle with forced control.

The serjeant nodded apprehensively, finally beginning to sense the danger he had missed before.

Tavington looked between the two, his displeasure at last making itself known. “So, while I, your superior officer, spent my morning hunting rebels, you two spent it hunting whores. Is this correct?”

The two men stood looking to each other, mouths gaping, afraid to answer in the affirmative, and yet, even in their inebriation, knowing better than to lie.

“Report to the lieutenant,” Tavington barked out sharply. 

“I want every musket cleaned and sighted, and every bayonet razor sharp by evening, and when you've finished that, you may start on cleaning the stables.” His dispassionate gaze landed on the woman. “I'll see the young lady off.”

The corporal nervously spoke up at last. “But Sir, we- we've already paid-”

“Shall I have you both dragged through the square and horse whipped for further dereliction of duty?” he snapped, turning the brunt of his anger on the young man.

Twin ‘No Sirs’ were stammered out, and both men left hastily without further protest or even a backwards glance.

He turned his attention back to the young woman, appraising her with a critical eye, his face still a stoic mask lest he frighten her with his intensity. She eyed him warily, pressed close against the wall of the house, refusing to meet his gaze.

Tavington raked that gaze over her. She was prettier than he had originally thought, her shock of dark hair half undone from the attentions of those two louts, and he longed to tear out whatever bindings held it still, and fist his hands in those beautiful tresses. All in good time. Her skin, far from pale, had a healthy glow to it. She was either quite tanned by the sun, or as he suspected was more likely, had a bit of native blood in her veins, though how far back it was difficult to say. In a word, she was lovely, her beauty effortless and natural, a far better prospect than any he might have chosen at the party.

“Well come along then,” he said at length, and then he turned smartly on his heel, and made his way towards the house's nearest entrance.

She followed. She had no choice really if she wanted to get back home, and he led her through hallways and up stairs until they finally came to the room General Cornwallis used as his office. Tavington stood to the side, gesturing for her to enter before him. When she did, he followed her through, and locked the door behind them, not that any would dare enter if they knew the room was occupied.

Tavington’s eyes fell to the map table for a moment as he walked by, moving behind the general's desk. He sat in the leather backed chair with a feeling of satisfaction as he surveyed the room, and after all, why shouldn't he? He was the ranking officer in the general's absence. His victories had earned him more consideration than he had been shown thus far. By rights, the chair and the office should be his anyway.

The woman wrung her hands nervously. His assessment of her newness to the profession seemed correct if she were not attempting to solicit his custom. He doubted she had been paid enough by those two to do more than scrape by. Smart enough to get the coin up front though. Many a new whore had learned that lesson quickly.

He sprawled out insolently and finally addressed her. “I take it you have a name?”

Her reply was a hesitant whisper. “Phoebe, Sir.”

“Phoebe,” he repeated in delight. “Why that's the name of a bird, isn't it?” 

Tavington's delight only grew further when she nodded in the affirmative. He had only just been admiring how delicate she looked, how she fluttered nervously before him. It was rather fortuitous really.

“Are you a captain, good Sir?” she asked hesitantly, speaking up for the first time.

“No, I'm a colonel,” he said flatly.

“I'm sorry. I meant no offense,” she replied hurriedly at his clipped tone. “I've never met a colonel.”

Her voice was just as lovely as the rest of what he had seen so far. He thought it would be quite lovely as she cried out for him as well, or perhaps, simply just as she cried. He wasn’t really picky.

“And which town do you hail from?”

She scoffed and glanced shyly up at him. “I think it would be generous to call it a town.”

“I see.” He could easily guess why she had decided to sell herself then. Many of the smaller villages in the countryside had been picked clean already by one army or the other. 

“So, this town that isn't a town is where you whore yourself out, is it?” She flinched at the question, shame coloring her cheeks with a rosy hue.

“Good Sir-”

“My men call me ‘Sir’. You may call me ‘Colonel’ as there is nothing good about me. Now, answer the question.”

“Our farm was ransacked. There's nothing left, not enough anyway to make it through the winter, and with father gone-”

“Fighting?”

She shook her head. “An illness, Colonel. There is no one to care for my mother and little brother but me.”

“And does your mother know  _ how _ you care for them?”

She ducked her head and the words that left her mouth were filled with shame. “I didn't tell her, but I'm sure she suspects, Colonel.”

They were both silent, he appraising her, and she awaiting whatever question he might ask next. When none came, she evidently decided he must be finished. “Will you be taking me home now, Colonel?”

“Not just yet. Take off your dress,” he ordered succinctly.

She looked up in alarm.

“Colonel-”

He smiled, making it as reassuring as he could, which he realized wasn't all that much. “Did you really think you were leaving so soon? You've already been paid for a task you've yet to complete. If I let you leave now, I would be forced to arrest you for theft. Now take it off.”

“It wasn't you who paid-”

“Do you truly wish to argue this point with me?”

Her hands trembled at her sides, unmoving, until he tilted his head and gave her a look of displeasure so fierce, she couldn't help but be cowed by it. She reached for the ties of her dress, fumbling with the knots until they came loose, and then she shimmied out of it, folded it, and laid it on the corner of the map table beside her. 

Her modest undergarments, threadbare enough to see through and leaving precious little to the imagination, consisted only of a simple shift. She was either intelligent enough to already dress for ease of access or she was far more experienced than she let on.

“And just how many times have you sold yourself, whore?”

She drew her full lower lip between her teeth before she answered him. “I've sold myself twice, colonel.”

There were tears pricking at her eyes already, and the corner of her lip twitched. “To a serjeant and a corporal.”

There was clearly no artifice in her words.

Tavington's breath caught in his throat, and the blood rushed down to his groin, his words coming out in a breathless rush. “Have no other men had you? Is it possible I'm the first?”

The stain of embarrassment grew darker on her cheeks, and Tavington's breeches grew tight with the knowledge of just what he had stumbled upon. He loved deflowering skittish virgins. They always cried so beautifully.

He held out his hand, beckoning her forward, and she shuffled shyly toward him until she stood before him, the desk at her back. Tavington admired her openly, leaning forward to rub a hand across her belly. She closed her eyes in resignation and attempted to keep her breathing even though she was doing a terrible job of it. His gloved hand slipped beneath her shift, caressing her knee tenderly before he smoothed his palm up her inner thigh, and rubbed at the crux of her legs.

She let out an involuntary whimper and he shushed her as though he were calming a frightened horse.

“Shhh, open your eyes, little bird.”

She did as he bid her, blinking owlishly at him.

“Good. Now, off with the rest.”

Her eyes flicked to the windows behind him, and he chuckled at her concern. This high up, he would have to take her against the panes for anyone to see them. He pressed his hand against her harder, and she whimpered again, but reached for the hem of her shift obediently. Ever so slowly she drew it up, and Colonel Tavington was mesmerized by the expanse of flesh revealed to his gaze.

All at once she whipped the shift off over her head throwing it to the side. She stared stoically at a spot above his head, and he took the opportunity to gaze upon her feminine form, his lust written naked upon his face. 

Colonel Tavington found her lovely beyond belief. She was far too lovely for him to have only the once, and then send her away, probably never to be seen again. And it would be much more convenient for him to have a warm body to return to after a long day of fruitless searching or whenever he returned bloodied from the battlefield, his passion high from victory. Leaving Cornwallis’ parties empty handed wouldn't matter either if she were waiting in his bed. There was also the added benefit of having something he could flaunt before his troops. Let them cast their sidelong glances at him then.

“You are certainly a beautiful little bird, aren't you?” She didn't answer, but he could tell from the slight flinch that she heard.

His gaze raked over the curve of her hips, her gently heaving bosom, the smooth supple flesh that just begged to be marked. She was certainly beautiful, and would be even more so with the evidence of his claim on her. Even now on her flawless skin, he could envisage the way his marks would criss cross on her thighs, her breasts, on her back, throbbing red much as his cock throbbed for her now.

Possessive bastard that he was, he should have known that he would want to keep such a lovely thing for himself. He wanted desperately to break her, and make certain she sang only for him. Tavington glanced past her. He had needs though, plans right now that didn't fit well with that desire. He would have to play more than once, twice at least, preferably more, but for that, he would first have to coax his little bird into her cage, and then he could lock the door behind her.

“Shall I inspect the rest of you then?” He removed his gloved hand from between her legs, and placed both hands on her hips. 

“I think I shall.” And he guided her backward the two steps to the desk. “Up you go.”

She hesitated, unshed tears shining in her eyes, the sight causing a delicious shiver to roll down his spine, and then to his delight, she clumsily hoisted herself onto the desk all on her own. 

He scooted his chair forward, bringing her within easy reach. “Now, hands flat on the desk. Lean back just a bit. Good. Just like that.”

Tavington forced her thighs wide apart, and in a moment of unbridled panic, she tried to bring them together again.

“Don't you dare move again,” he growled, pushing them back where he wanted them. When he looked up at her face the tears were streaming down her cheeks. Tavington groaned at the sight, his eyes fluttering closed momentarily, and he reached down to unlace his breeches and release the pressure on his cock before putting his hands on her again.

The pitiful whine she made when he parted her with his thumbs was the sweetest music he had ever heard. Well, only because she hadn't started screaming for him yet...

“Gorgeous,” he whispered, brushing a thumb over the center of her pink and tantalizing sex. “Nowhere near ready though…”

Tavington leaned closer, breathing deeply, and then he spat right on the little nub of exposed flesh as he held her open. She flinched, though she somehow kept herself from making a noise, but he knew he would get a rise out of her eventually. His leather-clad forefinger rubbed at her, smearing his saliva all around her clenching hole, and then one corner of his mouth pulled up into a smirk. He was far from finished with her after all.

“Did those two fools make it this far?”

“No,” she breathed.

He watched her closely as he pushed the digit into her. The roiling wave of disgust that flickered rapidly across her face was a thing of beauty, but she quickly grew accustomed to his touch as he thrust languidly into her, and her features smoothed out once more. When he crooked his finger it clearly took her by surprise. She gasped and arched into his touch, thrusting her breasts forward, head thrown back.

“Give me your hand,” Tavington ordered, and when she didn't immediately comply, he withdrew his hand from her cunt, leaned forward, and snatched her wrist up in his iron grip.

He stood abruptly, towering over her, and thrust her hand between her legs in the same instant his lips sealed over hers possessively. She struggled, trying to push him away. He wrapped his free hand in her hair, jerking harshly to hold her to him. It didn't completely stop her from thrashing in his grasp, but in truth, he enjoyed her futile efforts immensely.

Tavington sucked her bottom lip between his teeth, biting down hard enough that he tasted blood, and when she pulled back to look at him with eyes filled with unexpected shock and hurt, he grinned wolfishly and licked his lips.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

A shudder rolled through her as she watched the man above her lick her blood from his lips as though it were a treat. Phoebe had suspected the colonel was not a pleasant man when he had threatened, and driven off her two would-be customers. She had held out a sliver of hope that he was merely an unpleasant sort until he had made his demands known, and his cruel touch had echoed the cruelty of his words. 

His touch was something altogether different than the fumblings of those two drunken soldiers. They had been eager to get beneath her skirts though too drunk to effectively manage it. The colonel touched her with deliberate precision, as though she were little more than property for him to do as he pleased with, and... Well, she supposed that wasn’t too far off the mark considering.

He leaned in close to whisper in her ear, and his words were just as cruel as they had been before. 

“Good whores do as they're told,” he murmured, his voice low and tight with what she assumed was arousal. 

She cried out in surprise as he forced her middle finger inside her passage alongside his own. Her eyes flew open to find herself staring into the most beautiful blue eyes she had ever seen. His hand forced hers to move between her legs, his finger manipulating hers inside her. She had never dared do something so improper, and the initial pain as he worked both their fingers inside told her she wasn’t meant to engage in such an impropriety.

“Now tell me what you feel,” he whispered.

That initial pain had subsided. All she felt now was- 

“It’s wet,” she replied, not daring to do anything other than what he told her to do.

His grin widened. “Yes, I’m sure you are. What more?”

“Your glove, I-”

“That’s not what I meant.” He crooked their fingers again sending another spark racing through her belly. Her eyes squeezed shut as that spark rushed through her.

She pressed her lips together, but couldn't remain completely silent.  _ Oh, god was that a moan? _ Had she actually moaned? 

“Colonel-”

“Answer the question,” he insisted as he continued his ministrations.

“Ah!  _ Hot _ .” Oh that  _ was _ a moan, and… “A fire racing through- I don't- I don't know what you want, Colonel.”

He sighed wearily as if explaining it to her was a terrible chore.

“Does it feel good, little bird? Do you want something more? Something unnameable perhaps.”

His voice was insidious. It burrowed inside her as he worked her flesh. He didn't change his slow, deliberate stroking as he spoke, and Phoebe was so lost in that touch already that she didn't notice when she spread her thighs wider or arched into his hand.

“Hmm, do you?”

She had no name for what she wanted, no words beyond ‘more’ and she could barely articulate that. She must have managed it though, managed something, because another of his fingers was suddenly forcing another of hers in alongside the first. 

The pain was more intense this time. Not what she wanted at all. She had never had any fingers in there and suddenly there were four!? Their eyes met again, and she could see just how much he was enjoying it.

Ever so slowly he drew his fingers out of her, and when she tried to do so as well he stopped her, and shoved her hand back in place. Phoebe bit her lip to keep from screaming, the blood welling up in her mouth once more.

She watched him lift that hand, the leather shiny and wet, and bring it beneath his nose. His eyes fluttered closed as he breathed in deeply, the tiniest hint of a moan coming from between parted lips. And then her gut twisted as his gaze locked with hers again, and he slipped one of those glistening fingers into his mouth with another small moan.

Phoebe could only stare at him in frozen shock.

He lapped at the digit, evidently savoring the taste, his eyes on her the entire time. When he finished at last, pulling his finger free with a wet sound and a sigh, he inspected the second. It had dried off somewhat in the time it took him to devour the first. With a smirk he reached between her legs, shoving it back into her next to her own, and thrust a couple of times. Three didn’t hurt nearly the way four did.

He lifted his hand again, she thought to resume his disgusting feast, but then he extended his hand, and pressed against her lips instead. 

“Open,” he ordered. Her eyes widened but she didn’t move otherwise. 

His eyes hardened, changing rapidly from amused to something that truly terrified her. “You really aren’t good at your chosen profession, are you?”

He fisted his free hand in her hair painfully causing her to whimper pitifully though she still refused to open her mouth. “Perhaps it’s simply because you haven’t had the necessary practice.”

His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “I could help you with that. I could take you now without further preamble, and then tie you to a post in the square, my seed slicking your thighs, so that every man who happens by could give you the practice you so obviously need. No payment, of course. We’d be doing you a favor.”

There was a pregnant pause between them as Phoebe stared back at the colonel in horror. The silence was broken by the sound of some kind of horn. His smile only grew wider.

“Returning patrol. Just in time. That’s at least ten more strapping lads for you, ten more men willing to help make you the best whore you can be. So, what do you think?” 

Phoebe didn’t think, she knew as she looked into his cold, cruel eyes that he was serious. He would do it. He would probably enjoy it, enjoy watching her be defiled by who knew how many men. She swallowed the bile that rose in the back of her throat. 

“What will it be, hmm?”

“I can be a good whore,” she whispered morosely.

The colonel smiled at her. “And what do good whores do?”

Phoebe swallowed. “They do as they’re told…”

He dipped his finger inside her to coat it again. This time when he held his hand before her, he didn’t tell her to open. He didn’t have to because good whores did as they were told, and he had already told her once. 

Phoebe opened her mouth, and let him push his finger inside to rest against her tongue. His gloved hand smelled of sweat and horses and gunpowder, only the faintest hint of leather remaining. The taste in her mouth was vile. She concentrated on controlling her roiling stomach.

“Suck,” he whispered breathlessly, and she obeyed.

He smiled again as she swallowed down the disgusting salty flavor. His finger began to move in and out of her mouth, much the same way he had moved it between her legs. He pushed way into the back of her mouth forcing her to gag horrifically. She didn’t dare pull away from him. He added a second, and her eyes began to water.

After several minutes of forcing her to gag on his fingers, he sighed, satisfied with her obedience, and carefully withdrew them. Phoebe swallowed, keeping her eyes on him warily. The colonel placed his hands on either side of her, boxing her in, and leaned forward until his lips were inches from her own.

“Now, kiss me,” he purred.

She closed the distance between them, pressing her lips to his stiffly, and then pulled away as quickly as she dared.

“Like you mean it,” he growled, and she knew that she was pushing her luck.

Phoebe pressed her lips against his firmly, ignoring the lingering pain in her lower lip where he had bitten her. She tried to block out how wrong it felt to be sitting naked in front of a fully clothed man with her fingers still nestled inside herself. The man in question hadn't even deigned to try and kiss her back. 

Was he still angry?

She kissed him more fervently, trying to solicit his interest, and she grew more desperate, close to tears as he just stood there. Phoebe knew she wasn't a good kisser. She had only ever kissed one boy. They had snuck away at a social. He had left to go fight. For all she knew, he was probably dead now. So, kissing one boy clearly didn't provide any advantage in kissing a man like the colonel, but she tried anyway. Her only real experience then was him kissing her earlier, so she tried to copy him.

Phoebe sucked on his bottom lip, and felt him stiffen slightly just before he released a low moan and moved his mouth minutely against hers. She could have cried with relief, and moaned into his mouth, and sank her teeth into his lip just as he had done to her.

He pulled back abruptly, a flash of something like anger in his eyes, and struck her hard across the face. It shocked her. No one had ever hit her before. All the air rushed from her lungs, which wasn't good, because an instant later his large hand closed around her throat and cut off her breath completely.

Phoebe beat at his arm with both hands. It did nothing to loosen the grip on her throat. She was vaguely aware as she began to lose consciousness, that he had bent her backwards over the desk, and his mouth covered hers once more, but everything was going black quickly, and the pounding in her ears began to slow.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

As he devoured her soft, full lips voraciously, Tavington was dimly aware that she wasn't returning his passion. Beyond the initial flurry of panic, she wasn't really moving much at all. As he came back to himself, it suddenly occurred to him why that was so.

He released her suddenly, quietly panicking as she lay sprawled limply across the desk.

“No,” he breathed. She couldn't be dead already. Not before he had even had her. 

Tavington reached out and slapped her. 

“Wake up!”

He slapped her again. She didn't move.

He was just starting to truly panic, when her eyes snapped open, gaping wide, and she drew in a great shuddering breath as though coming back to life from the dead. Her body was wracked by a violent coughing fit, and she looked around, dazed, unsure of her surroundings, and at last her eyes landed on him.

He watched in astonishment as she sat up and began to plead with him, her voice breaking from her ordeal. “Please, Colonel. I'm sorry. Don't be angry. I can be good for you. Please, let me be good for you.”

Her pitiful sobbing shot straight to his groin, and the erection he'd lost in his panic at nearly killing her came roaring back with a vengeance.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Her throat hurt terribly. It hurt to swallow. It hurt to plead for her life, but Phoebe feared the consequences if she didn't. He stepped forward, reaching out for her, and she flinched, whimpering fearfully. His hand paused in mid air, and then he threaded his fingers through her hair painfully, jerking her head back to expose her throat.

He caressed the bruises forming on her neck tenderly, attempting to soothe her as he murmured, “You're okay. It was an accident, one that won't happen again.”

It did anything but soothe her fears. If he had nearly killed her accidentally, she was afraid to find out what would happen if he were inclined to hurt her on purpose.

His gaze dropped from her neck, raking down the front of her body, and came to rest between her legs. He grasped her wrist, draping her hand between her thighs again. Phoebe slipped her fingers back inside with a grimace. It seemed to please him that he didn't have tell her to do it.

“Now, you're going to play with yourself, just like I showed you, and I'm going to enjoy these beautiful breasts.” He lifted both his hands to cup said breasts, weighing them in his palms.

The colonel lowered his head, licking a stripe over the mound of flesh in one hand. 

“Move your fingers,” he ordered, his voice dangerous. 

Phoebe pushed them farther in and pulled them back out, setting up a rhythm similar to his earlier one. The way he watched her was unnerving, like he was assessing her form, to make sure she did it the way he wanted her to. It was humiliating in a way she struggled to describe.

Finally satisfied, he moved back to her breasts, sucking a nipple into the hot, wet cavern of his mouth. The way he feasted on her was obscene: his eyes closed, suckling tenderly like a babe one moment, and then devouring her in the next as though he would turn her inside out with the force of his suckling alone. Her nipples hurt, tender from his attentions, the raw scrape of his teeth, the rough buds on his tongue. They hurt and yet they strained forward, the reddened peaks seeking out his mouth and fingers. 

Phoebe no longer fought to hold back the moans that ripped their way out of her ravaged throat. She watched him feast upon her as her fingers delved deeper into that previously forbidden territory at the crux of her thighs. Her intimate parts slicked her fingers, a wet gush seeping out onto the desk beneath her. She crooked her fingers just as he had done before, seeking that rush of fire, that unnamed flash of heat coiling in the pit of her belly.

That coil paradoxically tightened at the same time it began to unwind.

“ _ Oh _ !” she cried out, arching her back to better stoke the flames deep inside, “Colonel, what is happening?”

He stepped back instead of answering, his gaze coming to rest at the point where her fingers disappeared, the look on his face wolfish and hungry. 

Phoebe chased the feeling of something building, and whatever that something was, it was soon coming to a head. The colonel wrenched her hand away in the moments before she found whatever it was that she was seeking. She fought against the hands that held her, a sound of utter despair wrung from her throat.

One of his hands released her, but before she could even move, he was pushing down the front of his breeches, and dragging her toward him as he fell into the chair at his back. She landed heavily, sprawled across his lap, the buttons on his jacket digging painfully into the abused flesh of her nipples. That pain paled in comparison to the pain between her legs as he maneuvered her into place atop him and thrust up hard, seating himself fully within her in one go.

Phoebe found herself unable even to scream. So intense was the pain of his penetration that it knocked all the air from her lungs, and stole the fire from her belly only to replace it with the sharp, stab of a knife twisting in her gut. A wave of nausea washed over her as he began to thrust into her hard and fast, and she feared she might be sick all over him. She turned her head aside just in case she couldn't hold it back. If he might nearly kill her for a bitten lip, there was no telling how he might react to being covered in her sick.

He groaned his pleasure out loud below her, hands tight on her hips to pull her down onto him as he thrust up into her. The intensity of her pain eventually diminished, though it didn’t go away completely. It didn't truly diminish until he grazed against that spot he had helped her find before, and a burst of sudden heat had her grinding against him to seek it out. 

It was an elusive thing, that all consuming fire that she sought, and he slid against that spot so infrequently, she wept in frustration, certain he was avoiding it deliberately. Phoebe opened her eyes expecting to find his, cold and cruel and boring into her. They were not. He chased his pleasure, wholly unconcerned with hers, and the pace and force of his thrusting up into her increased, as did the sounds emanating from his throat.

At last she thought to arch her back as she done when her fingers were inside and she had been so close to finding that elusive thing she sought out in desperation now.

“Ah!” she cried out, grasping at his shoulder to keep her balance. She bounced in his lap with the force of his thrusting, mewling, moaning, crying out from that flash of fire each time their bodies met. His breath grew ragged with the effort of seating himself so deeply, until he was pressing her down onto him leaving bruises on her hips.

She felt the spurt of his seed as he grit his teeth and groaned his release. Phoebe ground against him still searching for her own pleasure as he slowed, thinking to herself dazedly that she didn't even know his name. This man reaching up lazily to pinch her nipple had just seeded her, truly made her a woman, and she knew nothing more about him than his rank.

_ It isn't supposed to be this way _ , she thinks, tears coming to her eyes.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tavington grins languidly in satiation. He cups her breast, leaning forward to suckle the nipple once more. She moves above him, exquisite creature that she is, still chasing that which he had denied her. Her movements threaten to dislodge him from where he is still buried, his softening flesh still keeping his seed deep inside the tight, wet perfection of her.

She is, he remarks to himself as he feasts upon her, the most perfect whore he's ever had the pleasure of taking, but then he remembers that she isn't really a whore, or she hadn't been. He had made her one when he had carved out his territory inside her and staked his claim.

Tavington circled the bud lazily with his tongue, groaning as she pressed the soft flesh more fully against his mouth, and tightened around him. It was not artifice that made her act, nor merely the seeking of more coin. She didn't have the guile yet to ply a breathy moan at the perfect time, or clutch his shoulder in feigned desperation to try and make him believe that he was a lover of unsurpassed skill.

She was simply perfection.

He had known she would be.

His hands stilled her hips, a delicious whine pouring from her throat at being thwarted from her pleasure again. He let her nipple slip free of his mouth with great reluctance, but he could already feel his seed starting to seep from her, and the entire point of denying his deepest desires this time was not so that it could all run out onto his lap or the chair beneath.

Tavington stood abruptly, making certain to keep himself inside her, the strength in his legs from years on horseback making the feat a simple thing. He carried her across the room, and in a single fluid movement, pulled her off his cock and deposited her on the table. She stared at him, eyes wide as he pulled her thighs apart, and she grimaced when he parted her. His gaze flicked down to that most intimate part of her, red and puffy, no longer pink, but no less perfect than when he has first exposed and lain eyes on her.

He pressed his gloved fingers to her little nub, standing proud and crying out for attention. She sobbed, pressing up against him as he did. He circled the tiny bundle of flesh, pulling her into place distractedly, and watched as she finally came apart under his hand.

Tavington watched his seed, tinged pink, seep out onto the table below, and pressed down on her stomach, delighting in the way it gushed from her as he drew out her pleasure. Spent at last, she lay panting, shudders wracking her small frame. He moved her leg farther to the side, she didn't even fight him, and dipped two fingers between her swollen lips to gather up the last of his spend.

Their combined fluids, he brought to his nose, breathing in momentarily, before his tongue darted out to taste it. He lowered his hand, dragging his fingers through the cooling puddle, tracing over the territory that had prompted his taking her here.

Skirting the mountains, extending down towards the headwater, and right across to the far bank of the Ohio River. Tavington traced it over and over again. He was so absorbed in his task, he didn't realize she was looking at him until she quietly asked, “Will you take me home now, Colonel?”

There was uncertainty in her eyes when he looked up, and he shook himself. 

“Yes. Yes, of course little bird.” His mouth twitched up into the barest hint of a smile, and he held out his hand to help her up.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Colonel made her wait for him out of sight while he saddled his horse. When he came round the side of the house, he was armed with sword and pistols, but then she supposed the journey would be dangerous. She hadn't thought of that on her trip to the temporary fort. The men who had brought her certainly hadn't thought of that. They hadn't acted like it anyway.

He mounted his horse with an easy grace, reaching down to pull her up in front of him, and Phoebe couldn't help but think that he cut a fine figure. She supposed she could have done worse for a first customer.

Phoebe initially protested when he sat her in front of him, her legs on either side of the horse, until he silenced her with a curt warning about the dangers of traveling through the countryside. He wouldn't increase the danger to them by catering to her misplaced sense of modesty. After what had already occurred between them, she gave up the protest rather quickly, in response to his aggrieved tone.

As they wended their way through trees and over trails, the colonel followed her directions, but did not speak to her, seeming preoccupied with their surroundings. When she felt him reach quickly for the pistol wedged between them, Phoebe fell silent and held her breath. She never caught sight of whatever it was that he had sensed, but he relaxed after only a short while so it must not have been dangerous or it might have moved on quickly. Still, Phoebe did not raise her voice above a whisper again for the duration of their journey.

By the time her family's little farmhouse became visible through the trees, the dull ache between her legs from where the colonel had been inside her was a painful throb from the long journey by horseback. She would be relieved to finally be able to rest in bed, though she would certainly wash the stickiness from her thighs first. As they drew closer, she caught sight of her mother hanging the washing out, and sat up straighter, drawing in a breath to call out to her.

The colonel's hand clamped tightly over her mouth, stifling her words, and then he bent his head close to her ear, whispering to her, “Is that your mother?”

Phoebe nodded as best she could in his grasp. Her heart was thundering with fear and she cast her eyes about wildly. Had he spotted some kind of danger again? The arm not muffling her, snaked around her waist, and then he licked her in the soft spot behind her ear, nibbling gently. It sent an involuntary shiver racing down her spine.

“I see where your beauty comes from,” he whispered.

The hand resting over her lower belly tightened possessively, and then began to rub in small circles as he kissed her neck tenderly. 

“Mmm, I don't think I've finished with you quite yet.” She stiffened in his arms. “You'll return with me.” 

Phoebe struggled in his grasp, clawing at the leather-clad hand clamped over her mouth. He was far too strong for her, and then she felt the pistol at her back unholstered. In her struggle, she hadn't even realized that he had moved his arm from her waist. She stilled as he laid it menacingly across her thigh.

“You may choose to return with me, and I shall personally insure that your beautiful mother receives a weekly allotment of supplies until we have orders to move on.”

He cocked the weapon, the click reverberating through the flesh of her leg, and she whimpered fearfully.

“Or you may choose to stay, and I hunt down that dear little brother of yours, and put a bullet between his eyes right in front of your beautiful mother,” her eyes, wide in terror, found her mother again, still oblivious as she did the washing.

“I'll have her then, see if she's just as good as you. I expect she'll be sobbing uncontrollably, don't you? Kneeling in the dirt over his broken, lifeless body… I doubt she'll put up much of a fight.”

To her utter horror, Phoebe felt him stiffening against her lower back. He nibbled on her throat again, a low moan emanating from his chest to accompany his rising manhood. His palm loosened over her face, but she knew better than to scream.

She did jerk away from the attentions he was lavishing on her neck though, and hissed vehemently, “And then I suppose you would kill her when you were through, and then kill me as well?”

He chuckled lowly right next to her ear. “That would be a terrible waste. No, I would kill her, and then take you back with me.”

Once again, Phoebe did not doubt the sincerity of the colonel's words. “You lied to me.”

“When? I said I would take you home. I never said more than that.”

No, she supposed he hadn't, and if that were so…

“And if I chose to return with you, Colonel, my mother and brother would remain unharmed?”

He laughed behind her, not merely a chuckle, but a real laugh of genuine amusement, and muttered under his breath, “Quick learner…”

His glib attitude made a knot form in the pit of her stomach. He paused dramatically.

“I swear, as an officer of His Majesty's army, I shall not personally harm your family, nor direct others to do so,” she hadn't thought about that part, “provided you return with me, and remain exclusively mine. Will that suffice?”

“And bring them wee-”

“And bring them weekly supplies. Yes.”

Phoebe thought for a moment. “Suitably edible supplies?”

He made a noise of displeasure, though she wasn’t sure if it was due to her catching the loophole, or his general irritation with the conversation alone. It was probably the latter. “Yes.”

It couldn't be so bad, to go back with him, could it? Her family would be cared for which was all she really wanted. She wouldn't have to worry about them, and honestly she didn't really have a choice. The only reason he had not made good on his threats already was because she suspected he took perverse pleasure in making her choose.

“Then I agree.”

Phoebe held her breath, for how long she didn't know, and finally he thumbed the hammer and put the pistol away. Without a word, he kicked the horse, turning its head to go back in the opposite direction.

“Wait! Are we not-”

“Do you wish to tell her the truth?” 

He grasped her chin, turning her head and she grimaced at his rough touch. “You’ve clearly been crying… and your face is nearly purple. She won't believe a thing you could possibly say.”

She rubbed at her tender jaw when he released her. If she had been crying it was only because of him, and if her face was purple, it was also only because of him. Phoebe looked back, but her mother remained oblivious still. 

She watched over her shoulder until she could no longer make out the familiar figure through the trees.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Their journey back did not go as quickly. The colonel's ardor had not dimmed one bit, and he was hard behind her, slotting her close against him to allow the motion of the horse to provide him stimulation against her backside. Phoebe found herself disgusted by the knowledge of exactly why the colonel was so aroused. It took only until they reached the first fallen tree they came across for him to drag her from the horse and push her down over the mossy log. 

The rustle of his clothing seemed loud in the quiet forest, and he wasted no time lifting her skirts, bracing his forearm across her shoulders, as if she would try to get away, and draping himself over her. She could feel the blunt head of his prick against her as he dragged it against her sex, searching for the right spot. When he found it, he thrust into her fully, and this time she screamed, an anguished noise forced out of her through clenched teeth.

He was just as careless as he had been before in regards to her pleasure. Phoebe didn't mind so much. She didn't want to enjoy it, not this time, not after he had just threatened her family. It would feel like a betrayal. As her hands scrabbled across the log, the rough bark cutting into her palms, Phoebe felt there was no danger of that happening. He seemed determined that she would not enjoy it, or she was still just  _ that _ sore from earlier. Either way she whimpered with his every thrust, and she prayed he would finish quickly.

With a groan that echoed through the still forest, he thrust deep and spilled into her, wringing a final sob from her raw and roughened throat. He didn't say anything when he stood up behind her to right his clothes. The wet trickle of his seed running down the inside of her thigh could not be ignored, but she didn't want to move. It felt better when she didn't move.

The colonel, however, had other ideas. He tossed a handkerchief down at her, an implicit order for her to clean herself, and whistled sharply for his horse. Phoebe swiped delicately at the mess between her legs with a grimace, and was not surprised when the white cloth came back tinged pink.

When she finished cleaning herself as much as possible and pushed herself up to her feet, the colonel was staring down at her from the saddle, a bored and haughty expression on his face. He reached down for her again, the figure he cut this time, less fine now that she knew the kind of man he was. As she grasped his hand, she wondered how her situation would differ if he had not discovered her with those two drunken soldiers. She wondered if things would have been better.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

When they rode through the gates just before sundown, Phoebe's teeth were clenched tightly, the ache between her legs nearly unbearable. The colonel dismounted first, swinging down from the saddle elegantly.

A soldier approached quickly with an exclaimed, “Colonel Tavington, sir!”

Phoebe's eyes darted to the man in question. She finally had a name to go with the face, and her stomach tightened. The name was not unfamiliar to her.

The soldier stopped short, his eyes going wide when he caught sight of her. He took an involuntary step back. She realized she must look a fright.

“Well, lieutenant? What do you want?” Tavington snapped, though he somehow managed to maintain a level of bored arrogance through his anger, as if the conversation was entirely beneath him.

Phoebe slid from the horse, a gasp of pain bitten off at her lips, and found herself grateful for the strong arms that caught her despite the knowledge of just who those arms belonged to. She glanced up to find the lieutenant watching her curiously.

“Lieutenant…” There was a creeping edge in the colonel's voice, a brewing fury that Phoebe could feel coiling in his arms. It was enough to snap the other man out of his stupor.

“Yes, Sir- um, Lord Cornwallis bade me summon you upon your return.”

The colonel quirked an eyebrow at the statement, turning his full attention on the other man.

“He ‘bade you summon me’ did he? Like one of his mongrel dogs?” That fury was threatening to spill out, even she could see that, and she prayed it did not bode ill for her in the end.

The man opened and closed his mouth nervously, clearly sensing the same danger she did, and cast his eyes about, but what he searched for she couldn't say.

“N-no, Sir. He, the general, merely requested your report on the- the sabotage of our supplies. I informed him that you were out… searching…” The man trailed off as his gaze fell upon her again. He evidently didn't know how to reconcile her presence with what he had previously told the general.

The colonel heaved a sigh, and looked down at her in irritation. He suddenly propelled her by the arm, and Phoebe found herself crashing against his lieutenant. Thankfully his reflexes were quick enough to catch her before she hit the ground.

“See that she is safely escorted to my quarters. Ensure she remains there, unmolested by the men or else…”

“Yes, of course, Sir.” Colonel Tavington was already striding off toward the house, uninterested in his lieutenant's stammered assurances.

Phoebe watched him go until he disappeared through the doorway. When she turned back to the lieutenant, his expression toward her softened, but it was clear her would not disobey his commanding officer.

“Come along, miss,” he said gently, giving her a nervous smile. She could do little else but go with him.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lord Cornwallis sat at his desk, writing out a missive, or an order, or working on his memoirs perhaps when Tavington entered the general's office. He looked up at his entrance, his jaw clenched, and Tavington dutifully kept his gaze on the general, kept his head inclined respectfully, and most importantly, kept his attention off the map table as he walked by.

“My Lord.” Tavington stopped before the general's desk, standing at attention as he waited to be acknowledged.

Cornwallis glared for another moment, but then returned to his work, scratching quill against paper with an angry flourish.

“What do you have to report, colonel?”

“A few minor injuries, but save for one crate of muskets, all arms and munitions are accounted for.”

He met Tavington's eyes again. “One crate?”

Tavington inclined his head with a grimace. “It was the last to be offloaded and was caught in the blast. Bottom of the harbor. I suppose we are fortunate it isn't in rebel hands.”

“You call the loss of His Majesty’s supplies fortunate, Colonel?”

“No. Of course not, My Lord. I only meant-” Colonel Tavington bit back his anger as his reply was rudely cut off.

“I really don’t care what you meant, Colonel. I want results. Now, I have been told there have been no arrests and we have no leads on the whereabouts of these rebels. Is this correct?”

“My Lord is not… ill-informed. They had horses lying in wait. We lost the trail in the woods.” He paused momentarily. “We are working on bringing up the lost supplies on the off chance the rebels decide to return for them in the hopes of trying to get them in working order. As for the rebels themselves… the search continues.”

Cornwallis nodded, and then returned to his document dismissively. “Will that be all, My Lord?”

“No,” he drawled, though he didn’t look up and remained silent thereafter for some time. Colonel Tavington remained silent as well, waiting for the general to speak. It wouldn’t do to give away anything unnecessarily.

“Tell me about the woman.” His tone brooked no argument, and his eyes were hard as he looked up again.

Colonel Tavington feigned a sheepish reluctance, one side of his mouth pulling upward. 

“Hunting these rebels has been… frustrating, My Lord. We returned from our search, and I rode out to clear my head. I met the young lady in…,” he gave a small smile, “well I am afraid it would be generous to call it a town, My Lord.”

“And she chose to return here with you?” The incredulity was evident. Tavington couldn't fault Cornwallis’ skepticism considering his reputation among the locals.

“We have come to an arrangement of a sort.”

“What sort of arrangement, Colonel?”

Tavington shifted in feigned embarrassment. “Certainly my lord can guess.”

Did he really need to have it spelled out?

“But in exchange for what?”

“A few supplies for her mother and her little brother which I shall deliver weekly in exchange…”

“Unfortunately those are not your supplies to barter with, Colonel. How do you propose to remedy this?”

“I had considered that she might work in the kitchens while I am otherwise indisposed.” Tavington gave Cornwallis a meaningful look. “But I refuse to share with my men, General. Her bargain was with me.”

It was an ultimatum that had the potential to backfire, but he would not back down. Now that he had had her, Colonel Tavington refused to share her as long as she held his interest.

“Fine. I'll allow it.”

Tavington's eyebrows shot up in surprise. The occasional dalliance was expected, if truth be told, but a kept woman, under Cornwallis’ command anyway, was something altogether different. It was not only highly unusual, it was heavily frowned upon, an affront to the general's vaunted reputation, and Cornwallis hadn't even fought him on it. 

“My Lord, I confess to some confusion,” he replied hesitantly. Was there some sort of trap involved? He dare not glance toward the map table now.

Cornwallis folded his hands together, meeting Tavington's icy, blue gaze. “The truth is that your reputation, Colonel, is becoming troublesome. There was talk of little else last night. If this arrangement of yours softens your behavior towards the locals, and I trust it shall, then I shall allow you to keep it.”

Tavington bowed, “Thank you, My Lord,” and there was no artifice in his words this time.

“Thank me by finding those rebels and bringing them to justice. If the woman proves a distraction, I assure you, Colonel, that you will not enjoy the consequences.”

No, he didn't expect that he would.

“I also expect you to comport yourself as a gentleman, Colonel. Any bastards you father will be claimed as your own. I won't have my reputation sullied by you or anyone else.”

“Of course, My Lord.”

The general returned to his work, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. He turned to leave, and couldn't help the way his gaze landed on the table at the edge of his vision. Tavington suppressed his smirk when he found the map missing. If the general suspected him, he wasn't going to accuse or he would have done so. It wasn’t an accusation that could be tossed around anyway, not for a gentleman worried about his honor as Cornwallis worried about his.

As Tavington left the room, there was an unexpected spring in his step that he worked to hide, at least until he was far enough away from Cornwallis. He couldn't wait to get back to his precious, little bird, but first he had to insure that his version of events wouldn't be contradicted. For that, he needed to track down those drunken idiots from earlier. They would deny their own mothers’ existence when he was through with them.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Phoebe looked up sharply at the scrape of a key in the lock. The colonel entered, carrying a steaming pitcher, closed the door behind him slowly, and locked it back. She had hoped it would be the lieutenant again, but he hadn't returned since emptying the wash basin after she had used it to clean herself.

Colonel Tavington ignored her, seated at his desk, and moved to the empty basin. His movements as she watched him were deliberate, almost a ritual. He removed his sword belt, and unbuttoned his jacket, hanging it carefully before moving on to the rest of his uniform. The odd metal collar was next, and then the cravat from about his throat.

He pulled his white shirt off over his head, and let down his hair, sending it tumbling in soft waves over his broad shoulders. Phoebe averted her gaze from his naked back, but not having him in her line of sight made her nervous, and her eyes found him again reluctantly. He filled the basin, steaming tendrils licking off the surface, and began to wash himself with the same deliberate care with which he had undressed.

She watched the colonel perform his ablutions, the silence between them tangible. It wasn't until he picked up his razor and began to shave that he spoke.

“I have informed the general of our arrangement,” he told her as he carefully scraped the blade down his jaw. “He has stipulated that you shall also make yourself useful in the kitchens when I have no need of you.”

She silently prayed that the general kept him busy. Colonel Tavington smiled almost as if he heard her. 

“There will still be plenty of time for us to get to know one another. In fact,” and he met her frightened gaze through the mirror, his blade pausing for a moment, “you can take off your dress and sit on the bed, so that we may continue as soon as I have finished.”

Phoebe did as he told her to, drawing her knees up to her chest to hug herself nervously. He took his time shaving, glancing at her over his shoulder through the mirror several times until he finally put down his razor and rinsed himself clean. When he turned to face her and walk slowly towards her, she was once again reminded of a man approaching a horse in need of calming. She glanced down at his hand, and the cravat dangling from his fingertips made her heart pound in her chest though she didn’t know why.

“I should, perhaps, introduce myself to you,” he said, reaching slowly for the front of his breeches. “I fear I neglected to so earlier.”

“That lieutenant called you ‘Colonel Tavington’. I know who you are. Everyone has heard of you.”

“And exactly what do you think you know?” He pushed his breeches down, stepping out of them so that they were both naked together for the first time. Phoebe averted her gaze slightly once again.

“You’re cruel. I know just how cruel you are for a fact.”

Tavington smirked at her words, pulling her legs apart to settle between them. “I can assure you, little bird, that despite what you may have heard, you have no idea who I am.”

He maneuvered her into place, and secured her hands to the head of his bed, knotting his cravat tightly about her wrists. His hands wandered down her body in a familiar way, possessive in their touch, until he gripped her behind her thighs and pushed her knees up by her head.

“Please, Colonel…” She was still so sore…

"Colonel Tavington is a different man altogether."

His smile remained in place.  “William Tavington, at your service.” 

He entered her with a grunt, and she couldn’t help but cry out at his intrusion.


	2. The Cat Will Play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally have an update ready for this fic! Though, the keen eye will notice that it is now three chapters rather than two. Turns out I needed to let the story breathe a bit more considering everything I wanted to throw at it. This chapter is a little more experimental as I work on my writing. I'm pretty happy with how it turned out. (I should be considering how long it took, right?) 
> 
> There is one scene that I've been dying to work into a fic for a while now, and with our dear Colonel, it just felt right. He lives his life around horses, so why not. If you remember Xena: Warrior Princess, you might recognize it when you get there. 
> 
> And remember, as always, the Colonel is his own warning. Merry Christmas and Happy holidays everyone. Enjoy!

When he introduced himself to her, Phoebe had thought that he was grandstanding, that 'William' couldn't be that much worse than 'The Colonel' had been. There certainly could be no difference between the two. No man could be worse than one who so casually threatened violence on her family. It wasn't possible. As he took his pleasure within her body, she knew just how wrong she had been. She  _ really _ was meeting the man for the first time.

While the Colonel took immense pleasure in her humiliation, William seemed to also revel in her abject misery. The Colonel's brand of violence was both careless and effortless. William was deliberate. The distinction between the two didn't truly matter in the end. She had not been given leave to use his name, had been expressly commanded to address him by rank. The distinction only mattered in her own mind, and was one that would only drive her mad if she let it. It didn't matter which version of him she was dealing with. Her situation remained the same.

He licked the unbidden tears from her face with a grin, which only made her turn her head and whimper in disgust and fear. The more she cried, the more excited he grew, and the rougher he became until the bed was slamming against the wall with the force of his enthusiasm. 

William Tavington's violent claiming of her body was unexpected despite her now knowing the cruel truth of his identity. His mouth was all teeth and tongue as though he would eat her alive, and as he bit down sharply into the swell of her breasts with a low growl, his hips thrusting against her harder, she wasn't convinced that he wouldn't. Phoebe thought he would spill inside her again as he had before, and though she loathed the thought, she welcomed it as a herald of her reprieve for the night.

She had been terribly mistaken.

He abruptly withdrew and moved over her, trapping her arms and head between his knees, and grasping a fistful of her hair tightly, so tightly it felt to her like he was ripping it out by the roots. His was a smothering weight pressing her into the bed, and she cried out as he jerked her head roughly forward. The next moment his hot flesh invaded her mouth, pressing deep as he guided her, and groaned his pleasure aloud. She tasted herself on him, tasted the bitter evidence of his lust, the saltiness a strange and unwelcome flavor before the slightest, sharp tang of her own blood overwhelmed her senses.

Phoebe pulled at her restraints in vain, the cravat he had bound her with cutting into her wrists painfully as she struggled. She thrashed beneath him, her eyes wide and silently pleading with him to let her up, to let her breathe. The look on his face told her that he knew what she wanted, and he pressed forward, choking her with his flesh rather than grant such a reprieve. His heavy prick forced its way into her throat, lodging so deep there that her nose was pressed flush against his stomach. Her own was roiling

Even through the haze fogging her mind, Phoebe knew better than to follow her instincts and bite down. She had already had a taste of his sudden and dangerous temper and was keen to avoid it if at all possible. Eventually he did pull back before rocking forward again, the rhythm he set, steady but far too fast for her to draw in proper breath.

She was suddenly gasping for air before she knew it, blinking up at him through snot and tears as she coughed. His fingers were no longer tearing at her scalp. They were squeezing the sides of her jaw now in an attempt to pry her mouth farther open.

"Open up," he growled at her. "Stick out your tongue."

Phoebe complied immediately, watching the way he watched her mouth, helpless to look away as his hand flew over the length of himself. She could feel the bulbous, velvety head move against the flat of her tongue, could taste his bitter essence leaking onto her lips, but found that she couldn't look down at what he was doing.

His halo of long chestnut hair tumbled in soft waves over his shoulders. It partially obscured his face, sticking to his skin from his exertions, and there was no denying her earlier thoughts. The Colonel was a man who cut a handsome figure. She didn't understand why he felt the need to hurt her so or why he took such pleasure in it, and his angelic appearance covering over such degenerate behavior confused her all the more.

He groaned, long and low, a sound that came from deep inside his chest as he finally found release. She flinched, squeezing her eyes shut though she didn't dare close her mouth, not when he had ordered otherwise. Most of his seed landed on her outstretched tongue, though several sticky streaks painted her nose and cheeks and found their way into her hair. Phoebe opened her eyes slowly, looking up at him once more. He gripped the headboard for support as he held himself above her, balanced on his knees, chest heaving as he stared down at her expectantly.

Disgust, shame, and self-preservation warred within her. It was self-preservation that won out in the end. Phoebe closed her mouth slowly and swallowed with a grimace.

He didn't exactly smile at her, but he was clearly pleased given the arrogant tug at the corner of his mouth before he reached for her wrists. The knots came loose with only a few vicious tugs, and then he rolled off of her, throwing himself down onto the bed beside her with a dismissive, "Go clean yourself up."

Phoebe lay in shock; at what had just happened, at how abruptly it was over.

_ For now, _ she reminded herself. It would not remain so forever.

She sat up gingerly, wincing at the stab of pain between her thighs. With a resolve she hadn't known she possessed, Phoebe swung her legs over the edge of the bed and set her feet on the cold floor. Her knees nearly buckled as she stood up. Her hand shot out, reaching for the bed to steady herself. A few deep breaths and she began to walk forward on unsteady legs.

The water in the basin was tepid, a filmy layer floating on top from where he had earlier used it to shave. Phoebe picked up the still-damp cloth on the edge of the basin, pushed aside the grimy film, and dipped the cloth in the water. An involuntary hiss escaped through her teeth as she tenderly dabbed between her legs. What came off onto the white cloth was thankfully only a little pink, about the same as it had been earlier, though it felt far worse this time around.

Phoebe gazed long into the mirror when she had finished. She looked a fright, like she had been strangled, bitten, terrorized; all of which were true as her puffy face, her bruises, and her marks could attest.

She rinsed the cloth, scrubbing it over her face and hair, aware the entire time that it smelled exactly like him. It was better than just leaving his essence on her, but it was a bitter reminder of his control over her. Phoebe glanced apprehensively at the Colonel in the mirror, but his back was to her and he wasn't paying her any mind. He might have even been asleep already. She finished quickly, a glint on the table catching her eye in the last, ambient light of the day.

Her hand hovered over it momentarily before she drew back as though she had been burnt. To even entertain the thought was madness. Instead she emptied the basin out the window and moved back over to the bed silently. 

Phoebe bent to pick up her shift.

"Leave it," he murmured shortly.

She glanced over with a start, the light fabric dangling from her fingertips. He hadn't moved at all, his back still facing her, the sheets covering him from the waist down. How had he sensed that she-

"Must I tell you again?" he barked out, and Phoebe hastily dropped her shift back onto the chair, scrambling into bed next to him as quickly as her sore body would allow.

She made herself as small as possible trying not to touch him; a real feat as the bed was not overly large. He didn't move save for the slight rise and fall of his ribs as he breathed. She didn't dare turn her back on him, though she supposed there wasn't much more he could do to hurt her, so she stared at his naked back until it was too dark to see, noticing up close what she had failed to see from afar.

The expanse of flesh before her eyes was heavily marked with scars: irregular, round ones probably from musket balls dug out with the point of a blade, thin, raised ones curving over his ribs that made her think of knives, and long, jagged ones across the breadth of his back. Those she knew to be a result of the lash. She recalled seeing a horse thief whipped once on a trip to the village when her father still lived. 

Phoebe wondered what the colonel had done to earn  _ those _ . They didn't normally set the lash to those of higher birth without good reason. Or perhaps she had only ascribed such to him and he wasn't higher born at all. She didn't know anything more than the cruelty he had shown her, but if he wasn’t the son of some noble she wouldn’t be surprised. A gentleman wouldn't act the way he had done towards her.

It really didn't matter if he was a noble or not though. His was the bed she had chosen to lie in. It was a restless night for her as she tried to get comfortable enough to fall asleep.

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Phoebe jerked awake as a heavy weight settled on top of her. The Colonel, or William, one of the two held himself above her once more, an enigmatic expression on his face. He was only half dressed in his white shirt and dark woolen breeches and that look on his face… She had seen cats play with mice they were about to eat that looked less worrisome than he did in that moment.

He brushed her hair aside tenderly, the unmistakable glint of familiar silver catching her eye.

All the air left her in a rush.

He smiled at her obvious discomfort.

"I'm surprised by you to be honest," William, she decided, not that it mattered, murmured and stroked her cheek with a finger, that flash of silver held loosely in his hand. "I thought you would try to kill me."

So, he had left his razor there for her when he had finished shaving. To what end, she wondered.

Phoebe licked her lips nervously, unsure of his intentions. "If I were going to kill you... it would have to have been before we returned. Am I wrong?"

He smirked at her and she had her answer without him saying a word. "You are such a bright one. It's rather refreshing actually. Did you at least consider it?"

She swallowed hard, and he had his answer without her saying a word.

He ducked his head, pressing his lips briefly to hers and then he kissed her brow, whispering in her ear, "I would have respected you less if you had not."

In a sudden burst of movement he swept a leg over both of her own with the same ease with which he dismounted his horse, and stood up from the bed. "Get dressed and don't dawdle."

He turned his back to her, and she watched as he began the process of going through the same meticulous ritual with his clothes as the night before, only this time in reverse.

Phoebe followed the Colonel downstairs and through the house once they were both presentable. She followed as quickly as possible to keep up with his long strides, though she did have to clutch the wall for support several times.

At last they arrived at the house kitchens, the other women looking up at their arrival, their fear of the Colonel evident on their faces.

He looked down his nose at her, fixing her with his piercing gaze, and then said in a clipped tone that brooked no argument, "Make yourself useful until I return. When you finish here for the day you are to return to my quarters. Nowhere else. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Colonel."

He swept from the room without another word, and Phoebe looked around at the startled women around her. They were looking at her with obvious pity in their eyes.

Phoebe stepped forward on wobbly legs determined not to feel the same for herself.

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Three days spent sleeping in the woods, a hard saddle for a pillow was a sight more bearable than it once had been. He still hated it of course, but it was more of a temporary annoyance with the promise of a warm bed and a soft woman in it when he returned. While he could admit to still being somewhat surprised the general had agreed to his demands, Tavington had to agree with the man's reasoning. In the three miserable days he'd spent chasing ghosts in the woods, he hadn't once considered shooting a single, irritating colonial in the back while they ran for their pitiful lives.

He handed off his horse's reins to the nearest stable hand, and set off towards the house, an undeniable spring in his step. It had been a long three days and he longed to find some relief between his woman's thighs. The thought alone made him grin. He stopped short at the stable doors, his gaze landing on the tack hanging on the wall.

Tavington stepped over to the neatly ordered rows of equipment, his fingers ghosting across the oiled and well-cared-for leather. He listened to the tinkling of the bridles and pushed one aside revealing an iron ring bolted loosely into a beam in the wall. It was half-rusted, clearly forgotten, and he worked it free with little effort. 

He turned it over in his hands absently as his gaze traveled lazily over the assorted hanging tack. A grin stole across his face as a thought entered his mind. His shrewd gaze took in the various pieces of equipment hanging on the wall just waiting for him to choose. She would be well healed by now, a fresh canvas to work with, or close enough at any rate. He had no idea how or even if he was going to use the iron ring, but he had several ideas forming about how to use other bits and pieces.

Tavington felt an uncomfortable tightening in his breeches at the thoughts racing through his mind.

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After three days without the Colonel's terrifying presence, Phoebe had begun to feel as though her situation might not be all that terrible after all. Her body had healed well enough, and her fellow ladies in the kitchens had been rather welcoming after their initial, though quite understandable, apprehension. 

After retiring to the Colonel's quarters each evening, Phoebe had found herself with time to relax and time to entertain dangerous, hopeful thoughts; thoughts of the Colonel falling from his horse or running afoul of militia. Surely the General would release her back to her family if the Colonel were no longer around to demand her presence, and so long as she had nothing to do with it, whatever measures he had enacted to ensure her continued compliance surely could not be fulfilled.

Phoebe pushed open the door to the Colonel's quarters idly wondering if tonight she would dream of him being mauled by a bear. The thought caused a smile to curve the corners of her lips upward.

"I'm glad it pleases you so to see me… my little bird." She froze at the sound of his voice so full of malicious amusement.

Her eyes went wide to see him sitting so casually dressed, framed in the doorway, his legs stretched out, and one ankle lazily crossed over the other.

"I have missed you as well. You've no idea how much." He raised a hand, letting whatever he was holding fall back into his lap, and beckoned her forward. "Well come in then. Let us get reacquainted." 

Phoebe turned her head, looking helplessly back the way she had come. Her chest was tight with fear. Before she could even think to run, she heard his boots on the hard wooden floor, and he was suddenly much too close. 

"None of that now," he reprimanded sternly, steering her into the room. "Where would you go anyway, except right back here?"

Phoebe found it difficult to catch her breath as the lock clicked shut behind her. Terror made her slow and sluggish, her legs dead weight which forced the Colonel to support her as he led her across the room. Her gaze fell to the Colonel's arm and catching sight of the thing dangling from his fingertips, she let out a frightened little noise.

He steered her to the desk, the bridle in his hands making small clinking sounds, sounds that had always comforted her in the past whenever she heard them. The Colonel pushed aside a length of coiled rope and picked up a wickedly sharp blade, one of several lying on the smooth surface.

She took one look at it gleaming in his hand as he held it up, and fainted to the floor in a dead heap.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The woman, Phoebe, slipped from his grasp to land on the floor with a careless thud. He turned the knife over in his hand as he stared down at her. Not what he'd planned at all.  _ Oh well _ , he thought to himself. At most it was a minor inconvenience.

The blade flashed in his hand, and with a deft movement he severed one of the leather straps from the bridle a good twelve inches from the end of the buckle and let the rest drop onto the desk beside him. He stepped over her and knelt, coaxing her mouth open to carefully slip the leather between her teeth to fit it for their evening's use. Tavington spent far longer than was necessary kneeling above her. He brushed his loose hair back from his face, and then he grasped the hem of her dress, sliding it up her thighs. Removing her dress this way was much easier than he had anticipated, and for that alone he was glad that she had fainted. It gave him the opportunity to admire her as he wished.

Unguarded.

She really was quite pretty and quick-witted. If he had a type, she certainly would have been it. In another life, one where he still had an inheritance to rely on, he might have been inclined to take a woman like her for a wife. He might still, provided he secured the lands and titles necessary to require it.

Tavington twirled a lock of her hair around his fingers, bringing it to his nose, and inhaled deeply. He hated children, but at least it would not be a hardship to do his duty and pump out a few squalling progeny. It wouldn't even be necessary to interact with the children all that much. He smiled to himself. That's what nannies were for.

He sat back on his heels, slipping a finger beneath the leather gag, testing its play. With a sigh, Willam Tavington drew her unconscious form into his arms, hoisting her up, and proceeded to drag her towards the bed. He lay her across it carefully, arranging her onto her stomach, somewhat surprised that he was slightly out of breath. He had forgotten just how heavy unconscious people were.

Tavington stepped up behind her, ghosting his hands over the swell of her hips. His tongue peeked out to wet his lips and the corner of his mouth pulled up into a smirk. He lifted her slightly, working a pillow beneath her belly to adjust her position, and then left her there to retrieve his length of rope from the desk.

She didn't move a muscle, didn't stir at all, as he secured her. He bound her wrists together at the small of her back, leaving a length of rope free that he could use like a leash. She could struggle, and he certainly wanted her to, but she wouldn't be going anywhere. 

Tavington caressed the firm flesh of her arse possessively, pressing a hand hard against the front of his breeches as he did so. His thumb dipped between her cheeks, rubbing over the furled muscle he found so as to press the tip inside the tight entrance. Her muscles involuntarily contracted around the intrusion, tightening vice-like for a moment before she relaxed again. He squeezed the head of his cock, imagining that he was already pressing against her, ready to sheathe himself to the hilt.

At last, he withdrew his hand, stepping back to admire his work. Tavington grinned at the picture she made as he stood behind her, out of view, and waited for the inevitable panic to overtake her as she woke. He had learned quickly just how much she hated losing sight of him.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Phoebe shivered, her skin prickling with gooseflesh from the cold as she slowly came round, the scent of leather in her nose, the taste of salt and musk in her mouth, and then she jolted fully awake. He had removed her dress while she had been unconscious, but that wasn't the most worrying part. The most worrying part was the rough rope chafing her skin, and that infernal taste of horse sweat in her mouth, and that he was nowhere in sight.

She gnashed her teeth against the leather, attempting to push it out with her tongue. Phoebe turned her head sharply, first left and then right, but couldn't see anything past her shoulder. She pulled at her restraints frantically with little result. The Colonel was nowhere to be seen in her limited field of view, and she began to struggle up off the bed, desperate to catch sight of him again.

She screamed through teeth clenched around the gag when a hand landed on the back of her neck, strong fingers digging in as she was slammed back down and held there.

"Steady now," his disembodied voice crooned to her. "It took a little work, but I think it's really quite nice. Wouldn't you say?"

The hand on her neck caressed her warningly before it was removed. She remained in place, breathing heavily. He chuckled, and finally stepped into view, coming around in front of her. His fingers grasped her chin, forcing her head up so that she had to meet his eyes.

"Do you know what I've always loved about horses? Aside from their utilitarian uses?" he asked as if he didn't have a care in the world. There was a wicked gleam in his eyes that terrified her.

"What I like about horses," he continued, "is that with the right equipment you can break them to do almost anything."

The Colonel dropped his hand and moved out of sight once more. He continued to speak to her in that same conversational tone.

"My job when I first joined the army was breaking horses."

He gently brushed her hair off her back, sweeping it over one shoulder.

"My commanding officer always said I was too heavy handed. Too cruel."

His bare hands caressed the curve of her backside, and he pressed up against her intimately for a moment, making her squirm against the hardness she could feel through his breeches.

"But he could never deny that my methods were effective," and he struck her hard across her right cheek unexpectedly with his open hand, making her jump in shock.

Phoebe made a sound of protest, sobbing, pulling at her bonds again, but they remained stubbornly steadfast.

"Oh, as much as I would  _ love _ to hear you sing for me, little bird," he crooned, stepping back around in front of her, "I'm afraid the General does not wish to hear it."

His thumb brushed across her bottom lip, fingers caressing the leather bit wedged between her teeth. He brushed away the tear tracking down her face gently with the back of his knuckle, and he watched her for a moment, amusement twinkling in his gaze. "We'll save it for another time."

He turned abruptly, pulling his white shirt off over his head as he stepped over to his desk. The first thing he picked up she recognized with its bit of flat leather on the end, but he threw the crop aside, a bored expression on his face, and picked up a different item, examining it closely. This second one was longer and thinner, half its length stiff, the rest of it supple. He gave it an experimental flick and it hissed through the air, his features lighting up with delight.

"This?" he asked, catching her eyeing it warily. "I doubt you would have seen one before, considering your background. It's a dressage whip. One isn't actually meant to strike with it," and he grinned wickedly, "but then it wouldn't be any fun. Would it?"

"Do you like it?" he asked, stepping back over in front of her to trace the leather bound down the side of her face menacingly. "You don't seem to object, so I suppose you do, but you'll be sure and  _ say _ otherwise, yes?"

Phoebe cursed him from behind her gag, an angry sound that did nothing but amuse him.

"Now, it isn't that I think you  _ need _ to be broken in," and he tucked his whip into the side of his tall riding boot, stepping back behind her and out of sight.

The Colonel's voice dropped to a whisper, his breathless excitement evident as he pressed a hand into the small of her back to hold her still. “I just want to."

He struck her bottom with his open hand so hard it made his earlier swat seem playful by comparison. Her flesh grew instantly hot, and she screamed at him incoherently, her cries muffled and pitiful. He laughed at her, reigning down blows indiscriminately.

Phoebe couldn't get away, she tried, but he was far too strong. The Colonel might have been high-born, she still wasn't sure, but he was not a soft man like his general. His calloused hand easily wrapped around both of her bound wrists, pressing her down onto the mattress, the pillow beneath her pushing her hips up into a better position for him.

When he finally paused and drew away, both of them breathing hard, Phoebe just lay there sobbing, drool and snot pooling in the back of her throat. Her face felt puffy from crying, and her entire bottom and upper thighs positively glowed with heat. She sniffled, swallowing as best she could, resigned to her fate as she lay there.

Without warning, his whip hissed through the air, and a line of fire raced screaming across the backs of her upper thighs. Phoebe thrashed so hard she fell off the bed. It only took a moment for her to get her feet underneath her, and then she took off running. Her tears obscured her vision. She didn't even know which way she was going. Her only thought was that she needed to get away from him.

Phoebe felt a vicious tug on her wrists and her forward progress halted abruptly; so abruptly she went crashing to the floor again in a painful heap. She looked up, her watery gaze alighting on the rope coiled tightly around his left hand, and followed where it led back to her bound wrists.

The Colonel flicked his right arm, sending another lick of fire screeching across her hip.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

She was up on her feet again dancing away from his whip, moving around him unknowingly in a circle, always at the far end of her lead. It didn't help. No matter how much she twisted her body to protect herself some part of her was always within reach. Tavington remained focused on her buttocks and thighs, though he couldn't help flicking his whip across her nipples whenever she presented them to him.

He doubted she could see where she was going through her tears. She appeared to be moving on instinct towards that ever elusive 'away' that he refused to provide.

After some time, Phoebe sank exhausted to the floor and writhed before him, the tendons in her neck straining as she tossed her head back and forth each time he struck her. Angry red welts striped her thighs and criss-crossed her bruised backside. Tavington observed her closely, continuing to paint stripes on her skin with the same care an artist would paint on a canvas.

The whole affair was exactly like breaking in horses, his version of it anyway. There was always that initial lull, that moment when even his subjects thought they were broken. For Phoebe that moment had been when he had finished turning her arse purple. He could have stopped at that point, but there would always be that niggling voice in her head whispering words of rebellion if he didn't take care of that too. That little voice; however, couldn't merely be broken. People could be broken. Easily. But rebellion? Well, that had to be utterly crushed beyond recognition.

Tavington watched her struggles grow weaker as he lashed her mercilessly, the fight inside her dying a slow death as he pushed her beyond broken. At last she lay, a twitching wreck at his hand. His arm was actually sore when he finally stopped, but when he threw his bloody whip down in front of her face she didn't even flinch. With a satisfied grin, Tavington dragged her back onto her feet.

She hung like a limp rag doll in his arms, didn't make a single noise of protest when he put her back on the bed, arranging her face down again, lengthwise this time. Tavington stepped back to the desk to retrieve a small tin of oil, and finally shucked out of his breeches at last.

The shiver than ran through her when he climbed up on the bed to straddle her bruised and bloody hips was involuntary. The whine in the back of her throat when he pried apart her throbbing cheeks and worked a slickened finger into her arse was as well, the sound having an undeniable effect on him. Tavington stroked his engorged flesh slowly as he worked her open, unable to resist the urge to lean forward and swipe the flat of his tongue along a blood-specked welt.

She tasted as sweet to him as she had that first day. The memory made him groan aloud, and he had to stop playing with himself before he lost control. He added a second, oiled finger alongside the first, forcing her body to yield to him.

Tavington had three fingers buried in her backside before she began to stir. He withdrew his fingers, slicked his hand over his cock, and grasped her bound wrists for leverage. She kicked one leg weakly when he pressed the head of his cock into her, snapping his hips hard, but there was no real fight left in her. Tavington could almost believe the whimper she released was one of pleasure and not pain, but whichever it was didn't really matter to him.

Pain. 

Pleasure. 

He was fine with either.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Phoebe woke alone the next morning, every inch of her body aching. She fought back her tears valiantly, but it was a matter of minutes before she was sobbing inconsolably. A stray thought crossed her mind as she sniffled into her pillow that it was good that the Colonel was gone. Her tears would only have excited him, and she couldn't handle all that would entail at the moment.

The time for the midday meal had passed when Phoebe finally forced herself from bed and stumbled downstairs. The old woman who ran the kitchens opened her mouth to scold her upon arrival, took one look at her, and closed it again. Her mouth flattened into a thin line before she turned away. 

None of the other women were looking at her, but she held their attention nonetheless. They were probably all silently thankful the Colonel had chosen her and not them. Phoebe moved over to her station and picked up a knife to begin her work and was soon joined by the old woman unexpectedly.

"Are you hurt, dear?" Her voice was surprisingly kind and the hand on her shoulder made her want to burst into tears again.

"Does it matter?" Phoebe whispered, swiping at her eyes and bending to her work, the top of a carrot rolling off onto the floor as her knife hit the cutting board with a thud. She found the blade gently pulled from her hand, the old woman steadfastly ignoring the rope burns on her wrists, and a bottle of sherry replaced the knife.

Phoebe looked up into her wizened face in confusion.

"I know what kind of monster he is," she said knowingly. "You shouldn’t be here today."

The old woman continued off of Phoebe's expression of surprise, rubbing her shoulders soothingly. "He isn't the first of his kind, dear. You go on now. Drown your misery, you deserve that, but after, you have to decide what you're going to do."

"Do?" Phoebe echoed.

"This can't go on. It won't," she replied emphatically. "Decide, before he returns, if you're going to bear it or not."

"The man who hurt you?" Phoebe asked as the old woman turned away from her. "What did you choose?"

She breathed in deeply before looking back over her shoulder and answering. "I drove a knife through his chest while he slept, and put an ocean between us for good measure."

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sherry fogged her mind, and slowed her speech.

"Wha…," she murmured, the question sticking on her tongue. Her eyes felt too heavy, and she was only vaguely aware of the sheets being pulled away, the empty bottle rolling across the floor noisily.

Two strong hands turned her onto her stomach, skimming her dress up and over her thighs. Phoebe hissed slightly as the fabric pulled away from where it had stuck to the wounds on her backside, opening them once again. Her obvious pain was in no way a deterrent. He climbed over her, parted her cheeks, and Phoebe felt something wet and slick smeared between them. 

It wasn't long before she felt the blunt hardness of his prick pressing into her as well. There was an initial, unwelcome sting that made her flinch, but she had grown boneless under the sherry's influence and in her more relaxed state the way he moved within her was almost bearable as his hips drove against her relentlessly. She could hear his breath grow harsh as he lost his rhythm and became more violent, could feel his hair brush across her shoulders when he leaned down to growl something in her ear, but she missed what he said when he snapped his hips hard and ground up against her still-throbbing bottom making her cry out even through her drunken haze.

The Colonel splayed a hand between her shoulders, pushed in deep with a low grunt, and an unmistakable warmth filled her up in the moments before she passed back out.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Phoebe woke alone the next morning too, her head pounding, the mess between her thighs having long since dried. She didn't cry this time. If anything, she felt numb inside. 

By the time her head stopped aching, Phoebe had come to her decision. She knew that she couldn't simply flee and leave her family behind. It wasn't an option she was even willing to consider, and as that was the case, she had no choice but to hold her head high and stoically bear the attention the Colonel favored her with.

She hadn't even made her way downstairs when he returned not an hour later, gazing at her critically as he closed the door behind him. 

"Fancy another drink, little bird?" he asked, stalking closer, a smirk on his cruel, handsome face. He sank to the bed next to her, his sword belt bumping against her thigh, waiting for her response.

Phoebe shook her head. "No. Thank you, Colonel. I'm- I'm fine."

"Shame," he murmured, cupping her cheek in a tender manner that made her shiver with apprehension. She wasn't quite sure what to make of him. His characteristic temper had slowly been giving way to a strangely genial tenderness. It unnerved her to say the least.

"You make the loveliest little noises when you've been drinking." He dipped his head, his mouth latching onto her neck as he whispered against her skin. "Such enthusiasm... I should be sure to ply you with drink in the future."

She hesitated as the Colonel kissed her throat, unsure of how far his good mood extended. "Colonel?"

"Hmm?" he hummed in acknowledgement, pulling her closer into his side. She remained pliant in his arms despite the desire to pull away from him. 

"The bargain we struck…"

He made a sound of irritation, and drew back to look at her. Phoebe held his piercing gaze.

"I should have known you wouldn't simply accept my word." He looked amused rather than angry, smirking with wicked intent. "Well come along then."

She followed him down the stairs and out of the house to the stables, waiting patiently while he saddled a horse. He pulled her up in front of him again, and this time she did cry out when he seated her in the saddle. Her injuries would surely make the hard trip unbearable.

To Phoebe's great surprise, the Colonel set a lazy pace on the familiar path to her family farm. He was alert to their surroundings, but did not display the same level of caution as he had the last time. She could only conclude that he had been tricking her before, and feared that he was tricking her now with his sudden agreeable demeanor. 

At length, they arrived at the edge of the treeline. The Colonel reigned in his horse, and they observed unnoticed for a time. Phoebe felt his hands slip around her waist, stroking lightly as she watched her brother play in front of the house. Her mother popped outside just as he pressed his cheek against hers and dropped his lips to her shoulder.

"May I talk to her this time? I promise I won't say anything."

"About what?" he murmured, a smile in his voice.

"Nothing at all…," she replied.

"Well then I suppose I don't see the harm in it." The Colonel lifted his head from her shoulder and spurred the horse forward. 

Her mother had gone back inside, leaving her brother to play just outside the door. As they drew closer, he spotted them and raised an excited cry. Phoebe's heart leapt into her throat as her mother rushed back outside at the noise, clearly terrified until she saw what the commotion was all about. She didn't look much happier than if they had proven to be an invading army after all.

"Phoebe…" her mother whispered in disbelief.

"Mother, it's so good to see you."

Her mother glanced down and Phoebe followed her gaze to where the Colonel's left hand rested at the juncture of her thigh. His hands had been all over her throughout their journey and she hadn't even realized… Now she understood what he had been up to.

"I thought he was lying," she said, disapproval in her tone.

"Oh no," the Colonel replied before Phoebe could respond. "No, Phoebe and I have become rather well-acquainted."

His fingers moved over the top of her thigh. Phoebe was speechless. She hadn't expected such bold action in front of her mother, even from him.

"Have you gotten the supplies I sent to you?" Phoebe asked finally finding her voice.

"Yes, but… Phoebe, I wish you wouldn't-"

"But we're getting along famously," he interrupted. His arm wrapped around her waist possessively. 

"Your daughter is rather lovely and oh so bright. You know she is incredibly loyal to you and your boy? I should commend on you raising her. So few daughters would be as  _ self-sacrificing _ ." The emphasis he put on the last word left little doubt as to the deeper meaning of his threat, implied or not.

"Phoebe," her mother implored. "You don't have to go back."

"It's all right, mother." It was all Phoebe could do to keep from bursting into tears. "I'll be sure to send you supplies weekly."

"I am afraid, though, that Phoebe will unfortunately not be accompanying me in the future. She insisted this time, and I confess that I was so charmed I could not refuse, but what kind of gentleman would I be if I were to expose her to such dangers again."

Her mother didn't outright scoff, she was smarter than that, but she did glare at the Colonel with veiled contempt.

"We really must off, madam, before it grows too late. Say your goodbyes, Phoebe."

Their parting was tearful, and Phoebe felt certain her mother would have dragged her from the horse if she could have. 

She managed to whisper, "I love you, Phoebe. Remember that," before the Colonel turned his horse away. He didn't even give her a chance to say goodbye to her brother, before they were riding away at a gallop.

Phoebe felt a soul crushing  weight settle in her chest as the trees raced past them. Part of her wished the Colonel had never allowed the meeting to take place, and part of her realized exactly why he had.

She thought they would head straight back, but instead they travelled a winding route, coming to a stop at the edge of a clearing. A babbling brook echoed peacefully nearby as the Colonel's hand moved over her thigh and began bunching the material of her skirts higher.

"Your mother doesn't like me all that much," he whispered in her ear.

"Then perhaps you shouldn't threaten her." She shuddered as the soft leather of his gloved fingers delved within the place between her legs until she grew wet against her wishes.

"Did I?" His voice was soft with feigned surprise. "I'm afraid I don't recall. Turn around."

She nearly pitched off the horse backwards before the Colonel grasped her about the waist and drew one bared thigh over the top of his own woolen-clad one, steadying her in the process. 

"Your mere existence is a threat. There's no need to voice it."

"Is that your way of saying I'm dangerous?" He smirked down at her, plucking at the bodice strings on her dress.

"I've always had it in my mind to do this," he murmured heatedly, his gaze drawn to the flesh bared before him. The Colonel cupped her full breast in his large hand, ducking his head to catch a pebbled nipple between his teeth.

Phoebe gasped when he bit down hard and lashed the bud with his tongue.

"My breeches," he growled against her chest. "Unlace them."

Phoebe dropped her hands, plucking dutifully at the ties on his smart woolen breeches.

"Mmm, now reach inside," he moaned around his mouthful. "Take me out."

The flesh she bared was hot and hard in her hand and already slippery at the tip. His hand closed around hers, encouraging her to tighten her grip. The Colonel's impatience was evident as he bucked into her fist and pulled her urgently closer, his fingers gripping the back of her knee.

Phoebe's hand shot backwards. The horse beneath them nickered, stepping nervously to the side as her fingers tangled in its mane, and she held on for dear life. He shoved her hand away from his prick, impaling her on the length of him in one swift movement. Her breath caught, and she arched her back, clutching at his shoulder with an inarticulate cry.

The way the Colonel felt inside her, the rough scrape of fabric on the back of her thigh, the precarious way they were perched on the horse, and the sounds the Colonel made as he rutted into her combined to make it an unsettlingly pleasant experience for her. Her free hand wound around his back to slip beneath the Colonel's jacket, and she fisted the material of his shirt with a low moan. He went back to attacking her exposed breasts with teeth and tongue and lips. The familiar scent of leather and horse sweat that she was coming to associate with the Colonel filled her senses as he raised a hand to cradle her neck and hold her in place.

Phoebe found it difficult to remain quiet under his ministrations when the same heat she had felt in the general's office began to burn low in her belly. The world narrowed down to his hands and his mouth, to his prick deep within her, and the powerful beast moving restlessly between her legs. She couldn't help the way he was making her feel, couldn't stop herself from grinding against the hard body pressed against her own. 

Her vision grew hazy, and without warning she stiffened and shuddered in his arms in the moments before he found his own release within her. Phoebe rested her head on the Colonel's shoulder as she fought to regain her breath. She hated the way he held her possessively, hated the way he could make her come apart when he tried, hated that she could even feel that way with him.

"I hate you," she muttered, her face pressed into his jacket.

His fingers stroked the back of her head soothingly, in stark contrast to the words that left his mouth. "And you'll never do a thing about it, no matter what I put you through."

Most of all, she hated the way she couldn't deny his smug assertion. If it were only her she needed to worry about, then maybe, but it wasn't only her, and her family's lives were in his hands too.

That night after they returned, the Colonel tested her resolve yet again. He tied her hands in front of her and slipped a collar around her neck and then made her kneel on the floor where he had affixed an old, rusted iron ring into the floorboards, hitching her to it like an animal. The position left her back exposed and he took full advantage of that. 

The Colonel was generous when applying his crop and his whip, striking her back and buttocks until she felt as if she had been flayed open. She bit back her screams each time the lash seared her flesh until all that left her was a pitiful, incoherent moan as she sagged against the floor. Phoebe cried out when he jerked her back up forcefully by the hair.

Sweat glistened on his skin. His chest heaved as he sank both hands into her hair and forced his way into her mouth. A sadistic sort of joy lit up his features. He wasn't gentle, but her saving grace was that he had gotten so worked up from the beating that he didn't last long. A mere handful of thrusts, and Phoebe was struggling to swallow down the bitter fluid that flooded her throat and spilled from the corner of her mouth.

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Two days later, Phoebe set her water pitcher on the table carefully, smiling hesitantly at the woman next to her as she reached for a bowl and some flour. The morning passed quickly, Phoebe joining in the kitchen gossip on occasion. The other women didn't seem so afraid of her following her near breakdown, and she felt more a part of their group as a result.

She laughed as her companion, Sarah, made an off color statement about the Colonel. In the short time Phoebe had known her, Sarah had proven to be a much bolder woman than the others, and nearly as bold as Eleanor, the old woman in charge. Phoebe's back was to the door when she heard a sudden start of fright behind her, and her stomach clenched in fear and then concern for her new friend. 

The Colonel was a proud man who would not let even an insult uttered in jest slide. Phoebe bent over her work, her heart pounding in her breast, hoping that her new friend had not been overheard. She couldn't protect her from the Colonel's wrath anymore than she could protect herself.

Slow footsteps rang out on the stone floor moving towards her.

"Sir, you cannot be in here," someone insisted, but the footsteps came closer as she was ignored.

He stopped directly behind her. Phoebe closed her eyes and shuddered as he moved her hair over one shoulder, and she felt the heat of his body against her back. The Colonel's mouth latched onto her throat, sucking hard, his tongue moving over her skin.

A hush had fallen over the room. She knew that every eye was on her, but also knew better than to pull away from him. He pulled her back against the solid line of his body, and she looked down as an unfamiliar hand slid across her hip.

Phoebe's eyes went wide, first with surprise and then with fear. The Colonel's hands were etched in her memory. She knew what they looked like whether they held his hated whip or slid tenderly across her skin. The hands on her now did not belong to the Colonel.

She pushed against the man with a scream, trying to escape his hold on her. Through her frantic thrashing she finally managed it. She spun in his grasp, and came face to face with the serjeant who had unknowingly brought her into her current nightmare. He scowled hideously at her, trapping her with the table at her back.

"Now don't be that way," he murmured, pulling at her skirts. "You still owe me..."

"Get off me!" Phoebe begged. His breath smelled of alcohol again. He wasn't doused in it this time, but had evidently had enough to give him the courage to come after her.

Eleanor suddenly appeared next to her, insinuating herself between them. "Sir, I must ask you to leave."

The serjeant glared at Eleanor balefully, attempted to push her away, and then stopped short. He looked down at the kitchen knife she held threateningly against the placket of his breeches.

"You don't scare me, woman," the serjeant sneered at her. "This whore owes me, and I'll-"

"It doesn't matter if I scare you. It doesn't matter what you think she owes. Will your colonel agree with you? What do you think he'll do when he finds out about this?"

"He won't," but the serjeant looked hesitant even as he said it.

"If you're certain, you know I can't really stop you."

She lowered the knife and stepped back, but the serjeant made no move towards Phoebe. His gaze lingered on her. Phoebe swallowed nervously, watching as his eyes flicked to her throat, and then with a snarl he turned and stormed away without a backwards glance. 

Once he was gone, Phoebe released a sigh of relief, bracing herself against the table. She pressed a hand against the side of her throat only half attending to Sarah and Eleanor's concern, welcome though it was. The Colonel was going to be so angry when he returned.

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For the second time that day, a hush fell over the kitchen. This time Phoebe knew that it was the Colonel who had appeared in the doorway, and her heart beat faster with apprehension.

"Phoebe," he called from behind her. "You're finished for the day. Come along."

She reached with shaking fingers for the ties on her apron, and said not a single word as she set it aside. Her head was bowed slightly, her footsteps quick as she made her way across the kitchen. She reached him, made to brush quickly by him, and was halted by his hand splayed across her stomach. 

"A moment." Her gaze drifted up to the Colonel's face, but she found him looking past her, a frown between his brows as he studied the faces of the other women present.

The Colonel looked down at her, confusion evident in his expression. His eyebrow ticked upward the slightest bit, and his upper lip made a curious little jump, displeasure flashing briefly over his face. He reached up, and time moved like molasses as he brushed the hair off the side of her neck.

Phoebe's gut twisted violently. She had been so terribly wrong. The Colonel wasn't angry.

His affable demeanor was suddenly and completely gone. His confusion melted away, and his suspicion boiled over into rage, the kind of fury she had never imagined, not even from him.

"Colonel-"

He grabbed a fistful of her hair, cutting off her words with a vicious jerk that felt like he had torn it out by the root.

"Who was it?" he growled, his words clipped with anger. There was danger in his voice and murder in his eyes and Phoebe wasn't entirely certain his rage was not directed at her.


End file.
